


The Mighty Fall

by applepieisworthit



Series: THE DURINS AREN'T AS MAJESTIC AS THEY THINK THEY ARE [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, Humour, Thror didn't mean to embarass himself in front of the Elvenking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:43:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3620298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CRASH!</p>
<p>Thrór, son of Dáin, King under the Mountain, the mightiest of the Dwarves of Durin’s line, has just risen from his throne to greet the Elvenking, tripped over his robes and sent himself sprawling face first across the hard marble floor at the base of the throne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mighty Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sansûkh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/855528) by [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/pseuds/determamfidd). 



> This is a story written for @renioferebor and @justatouchofgoldsickness on tumblr (or Thror and Thrain in the Sansûkh podfic) and for #QUEENDETS (determamfidd) the wonderful writer of Sansûkh, I have borrowed your characters for this fic so it’s dedicated to you as well!

CRASH!

There is a sudden intake of breath from the Dwarves in the throne room whilst the only sign of surprise on Thranduil’s face is the slight raising of an eyebrow and a small twitch at the side of his mouth.

Thrór, son of Dáin, King under the Mountain, the mightiest of the Dwarves of Durin’s line, has just risen from his throne to greet the Elvenking, tripped over his robes and sent himself sprawling face first across the hard marble floor at the base of the throne.

A stunned silence follows whilst the Dwarf king picks himself up, straightens the crown on his brow and brushes his robes off. A few of the normally expressionless elves spread out around their king have small smirks lifting the corners of their mouths, and it is obvious from Thrór’s sour expression that he has noticed this slight against him.

The next half an hour of negotiation talks between the Dwarves and Elves are even more strained than usual; the elves are trying and failing to hide their obvious amusement at Thrór’s fall. The Dwarf guards and courtiers meanwhile are having an increasingly hard time keeping in their debilitating laughter; Thráin, Son of Thrór, Crown Prince of Erebor has been going increasingly red in the face over the course of the talks and seems to be barely holding himself in check. Queen Hrera, wife of Thrór, has spent the last half an hour becoming more and more exasperated with Longbeards (and Durins) and their idiocy; no Broadbeam would have made such a blunder in front of visiting royalty.

Finally the negotiations are over and after an exceedingly mocking half-bow Thranduil and his entourage leave the throne room.

No sooner have the Elves disappeared from view than a loud peal of deep laughter echoes around the cavernous space. There is a beat of shocked silence – who would dare to laugh aloud at the King – when no one seems to know what to do with themselves, and try to make it obvious it isn’t them laughing. When there is a huff from beside the throne, everyone spins that direction to see Thráin beside himself with mirth.

Thrór stares at his son for about half a minute in shock and indignation as Thráin tries to get his guffaws under control. Hrera, standing just behind her son near the throne, has a feeling that her eyes are going to hurt from the amount of times she rolled them by the end of the day. No one standing in the throne room is the least bit surprised when Thrór stalks right up to his son and smashes his fist into his face as hard as he can. Thráin staggers back a few steps, still snickering, as blood gushes from his handsome Durin nose down his face. 

Hrera, who had taken a few steps out of the way in exasperation, hurries, grandly, over to her husband and son with a tut, brandishing a handkerchief which she presses to her son’s nose, mopping up the blood before it can run into his beard and ruin all her hard work braiding it for today. There is a tense silence reverbing through the vast space as everyone waits for a hint of what to do. Finally, Thrór waves a dismissive hand and the courtiers start to trickle out, still in almost complete silence. Any talking that has started up is rendered silent again when there is an echoingly loud snort.

Everyone freezes in wide-eyed horror and turns slowly to the guard placed to the left of the throne in mounting dread. Hrera has closed her eyes in resignation and Thráin winces slightly, it is one thing for the son of the King to laugh at him, another completely for some anonymous guard to laugh. Thrór turns slowly from his wife and son to glare at the guard. He then marches over to the guard, his restrained anger and annoyance clear in his tense shoulders and loud, uncontrolled gait, for Thrór was a Dwarrow usually well in control of actions. The guard is practically trembling in his boots as Thrór looms over him, with narrowed eyes and his lips pursed in a thin line. The tension in the room is thick and getting thicker by the minute as everyone waits to see what Thrór will do to the Dwarf who dared to laugh at his humiliation in front of the Elvenking. Practically every Dwarf standing stiff jumps out of place when the King lets out a deep chuckle. The poor guard standing in front of him seems to not know how to react so she just continues staring blankly, hoping to escape anymore of Thrór’s wrath.

Thrór claps a hand down on the fear-paralysed Dwarrowdam’s shoulder, with a further chuckle.

“Don’t worry lass. I would have laughed too,” there is a beat of silence where no one seems to know how to react to the Dwarf King’s statement before he carries on regardless, “however…” everyone watching tenses further at the slightly less jovial tone issuing forth from Thrór, “I think a couple ‘a months toilet duty shouldn’t hurt you.” Thrór pauses and everyone waits to with baited breath to see if there is anymore, “and maybe cleaning up after my grandchildren perhaps. I think that should do it.”

If it is possible even more of a hush falls over the hall at the last statement, every Dwarf in Erebor knows how troublesome Thráin’s young sons Thorin and Frerin are and being given clean up duty after them for two months is nearly worse than being locked in the dungeons for a while.

The guard is standing staring in muted horror at the King when he raises an eyebrow at her, “Well? What are ye waiting for?” The guard starts and scuttles away to the royal suite as quick as she can to get out of the way of anymore of the King’s wrath. Hrera tuts at her husband as he stalks out of the throne room in the direction of the training grounds, most likely to spar with his distant cousin Fundin.

Just as Thráin, still chuckling slightly, goes to leave the room to head to Frís and his sons Thrór stalks back in and heads straight for Thráin. Hrera, holding her son’s elbow, glares at her husband, who cowers slightly under her annoyance, but still comes over.

“I have realised, inûdoy, that you should have a punishment for laughing at your king.” Hrera yet again finds herself rolling her eyes at her ridiculous Longbeard husband.

“Adad, I’m 120, I don’t think I need punishments anymore.”

“Now now Inûdoy, don’t be childish. I think maybe a couple of weeks of doing my paperwork should help?”

Thráin’s eyes widened as he stared at his father, “Adad! Are you serious?!”

Thrór smirked and clapped a hand onto Thráin’s shoulder, “Should teach you not to laugh at your King, nidoy.” Thráin huffs at his father as Thrór turns back around a small smile quirking his lips behind his beard and strolls back towards the training rooms.

**Author's Note:**

> That's all for now folks!
> 
> I could be convinced to write a sequel to this is people really want one.
> 
> Khuzdul (courtesy of Sansukh):  
> inûdoy - son  
> Adad - father  
> Nidoy - boy


End file.
